Falcon: Nox Custos
by Europiam
Summary: "With great power, comes great responsibility." And now with the White Rose growing ever more powerful by the day, Falcon feels that responsibility more than ever; and with a new murderous vigilante on the loose, one who lets nothing stand in their way, Falcon must deal with her greatest challenge yet.
1. Chapter 1: Ghost in the City

**Falcon: Nox Custos**

**Chapter I: Ghost in the City**

* * *

**Jason**

I awoke suddenly, and found the sun already streaming through a gap I had left in the curtains. My whole body ached and my right shoulder felt stiff, and burned when I moved it in any direction. It was the ghost of an injury, but I had grown used to these during my time in New York City. Hell, you don't spend God-knows how many hours slogging at a punching bag without some trade off.

I rolled over, the bedsprings creaking under me, and I fished around in the black denim tangle that was my jeans for my phone. As I searched, a lock of black hair fell across my eye, and I irritably pushed it back off my forehead, only to have it fall back into place a few seconds later.

After a few moments of fruitless rummaging, I finally extracted the device, and thumbed the unlock button. It awoke with a slight vibration, and the inevitable angry "Low Battery" message glared at me from the screen, before it slid away and I was permitted access to the rest of the mobile.

Very little had happened, but this was not surprising, given my appalling social skills. Today, a Snapchat notification from Diana, an old friend from England, blinked at me. We had managed to keep this conversation for quite some time, only "slightly" hampered by our vastly different time zones. Instead of replying, I idly tapped the icon for the other notification. Hardly worth the minor effort, as it was a Facebook game request from some random person I barely knew. Worst of all it was for Candy Crush. That game is the bane of my existence.

I was about to drop it back to its place on the floor, when it buzzed in my hand, nearly making me drop it in surprise. A call, from Mary Jane, even though I was fairly sure she was only downstairs. I flicked the answer button and sat up, pressing the phone against my ear and hearing only the slight wash of white noise.

"Morning Sunshine."

Even without seeing her, I could hear the grin plastered across Mary Jane's face. It was obvious from her only vaguely smug tones.

"MJ," I sighed ruefully, sweeping my fringe away from my face again. I took the opportunity of examining the room I was in, as it was the most interesting thing I had going on right now. It was nondescript, to say the least. Plain white walls in a simple box, with an equally plain beige carpet. I had only one window, and the dismally thin curtains that hung there struggled to keep the sunlight at bay. An ordinary wardrobe, a cheap wood bed, and a desk, on which sat my laptop, which was one of the few things I had taken the liberty of personalizing.

"Yeah, Dad wants you down, like, now," Mary Jane continued, "He even made breakfast for us, isn't that nice?"

Another voice, this one quieter and slightly distorted, sounded out in the background, and Mary Jane paused, then;

"So yeah, he leaves in like, 30 seconds," she said cheerily, "Better get that damn fine butt of yours moving Jase."

"Yeah yeah, sure," I muttered, clambering from the bed, and beginning the hunt for some clean clothes.

"Why did you have to call though?" I asked, "You're about, what, ten foot away. Hardly deserves a call right?"

"Meh," Mary Jane replied nonchalantly, "It was effort to walk up there. Tick-tock, Jase."

She killed the call, and I tossed the phone onto the bed behind me, before returning to the task at hand. The clothes I had picked out where as unremarkable as the room I resided in. Black long sleeved T-Shirt, and blue skinny jeans, nothing that would make me stand out in a crowd. That was made more of a challenge however by my distinct Oxford accent, and the neon blue streak in my hair that seemed to say, "Hey, look at meeee! I stand out." The streak itself had been the resulting product of a dare from Diana, and she had made me swear to keep it I, so I was stuck with it.

Pausing only to scoop up yesterday's dirty clothing, I headed for the stairs, lobbing the bundle in the general direction of the wash basket as I passed by. When I arrived in the kitchen, I saw Mary Jane's Dad stood anxiously by the door, bouncing slightly on his heels.

"Ah, Jason, good," he said distractedly, spotting me with a palatable sense of relief. What was going through his head? Did he think I would have just run away again? As absolutely thrilling an idea as that sounded, I didn't want to cause the Watson family any more grief. The amount of trouble they'd get from Social Services for letting their adoptive son disappear in the middle of America's largest city would be immense.

Mary Jane realised my presence too, and greeted me with a mischievous grin.

"You ready for another thrilling day then?" she asked, pulling me by the elbow to the kitchen table.

I could feel her dad's gaze burning into the back if my neck, and I resisted the urge to look round. I had come to expect this from him though. He tolerated my presence, but had made it very clear that he did not consider me part of the family, and seemed to go out of his way to remind me of it.

He took a few steps across the kitchen, and embraced Mary Jane briefly, and she kissed him on the cheek. Straightening, he nodded to me, in a rather curt and cold manner. I watched him as he stepped out the front door, slamming it behind him.

"Jase," she said, and the concerned tone to her tone made me look round. She was pointing to something on my jaw, something I couldn't see.

"What is it?"

"It's a cut," she said, leaning in for a closer look, and I felt her hair tickling my ear, "A nasty one."

"I- I don't know why..."

My voice tailed away, and I felt my face flush.

"Jase," Mary Jane said softly, "Have you been in another fight?"

I stayed silent, but my heel tapped a nervous arpeggio on the tiled kitchen floor. Mary Jane continued to stare, as if her green eyes alone could convince me of speaking. They didn't and eventually she sighed, giving up. I was relieved, although not surprised. Mary Jane was used to this. Used to me.

"Come on then," she said, straightening up and slinging her bag onto her shoulder. She had set her expression into one of resolute, maybe a little bit of contriteness after getting another question rejected. From the hard line of her lips, I could tell she was a little ticked. "We'd better get going."

"Yeah, okay then."

There was no point in arguing – I couldn't tell Mary Jane the truth, but I hated it when she was angry (or disappointed) in me, so I did my best to make up for it in some manner of compliance.

I stood too, and glanced around the kitchen again. The plain white walls and stark black tiles felt a little comforting, more so than the idea of joining another new school. Unfamiliar faces, funny accents, irritable teachers – and of course the ever-ubiquitous bullies. The guys that pushed you into lockers and cheated off your homework, the girls who spread rumours behind your back, asked you on a date and pretended to forget. Those were always fun.

My history with schools has never been too good. Let's just say I've got kicked out more than a few places for picking the wrong fight, and keep it at that.

There was the sound of a vehicle pulling up, and Mary Jane moved towards the door. After a few steps, she stopped and turned.

"You coming?"

"Oh- uh. Yeah." I stood, and pulled my bag onto one shoulder and followed her from the house.

…

**Amy**

The hall was annoyingly crowded, people all bunched together and shoving past each other to in a vast melee. The few minutes between classes were always the worst. My radar picked up on all the small details that I couldn't filter through; the annoying high-pitched laughter, the hundreds of locker doors opening and slamming shut, backpacks being swung onto shoulders, millions of letters typed per second on tiny virtual keyboards, in plain view of teachers who would usually frown on that sort of thing if they weren't too busy dealing with the bigger problems.

For example: football players barrelling through the halls like they owned the place, throwing footballs as they went. Flash Thompson was a major contender, and I managed to duck a pigskin gone ballistic after a bad throw.

Something bright caught my eye. A small flash of blue. Stupid thing to notice. Probably a phone or something, who cares?

"Hey, you."

I heard Mary Jane's voice at my shoulder.

"Hey," I replied, my voice unenthusiastic. I tried to get across the message I wasn't feeling the Magic of Friendship today. I wasn't subtle. Not that it discouraged her.

"I have someone for you to meet," she grinned, motioning for me to look. "He's right-"

She stopped suddenly, and I turned. MJ was pointing at an empty spot behind her, probably her imaginary friend (that'd be new), and stifled a smirk when her face got a little irritated.

"Here," she finished flatly.

"Well?" I said, raising one eyebrow. I very much wanted to hear about this invisible friend of hers. I started to back away, but Mary Jane just shook her head.

"Oh no," She said, with a sly little smile. MJ seemed to guess what was going on. "I know where he'll be."

Mary Jane led me to the computer lab, a couple floors down. I followed her, not because I wanted to, but because Mary Jane was used to getting her way, and if I didn't do it now, she would bug me endlessly about it. She kept talking about this Jason kid, someone I'd honestly never heard of before, although it did kind of ring a bell. Then again, Jason wasn't an unusual name so maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me.

Upon reaching the lab, we had to look around the terminals to find the right one. The computer lab was as quiet as the library, which kind of made sense since everyone at a screen had headphones on and was minding their own business. The computers were arranged in neat rows on either side of us -five to each, and ten columns filling the room. There was a desk near the door where sat a bespectacled woman in a tight bun, who made us sign in before going any further.

I looked around, mildly curious. I had never been in the computer lab before, since most classrooms had their own shared laptops to use. And before that, the library had been my previous hide out (that or the girl's bathroom) when I wasn't hiding from bullies. On my breaks I either hung out at the gym or outside, where I could breathe real air. There were a couple of kids to the right discussing a Power Point presentation, and another one apparently dozing in his chair while Dubstep blared in his headphones, loud enough for the guy in the seat next to him turned up the volume on his own headset.

The person we were looking for was in the far back of the room, in the corner, apparently trying to be as far away from everyone as possible. I didn't really recognise him; he could have been any random schmoe I passed a dozen times over the past few weeks. He's the new guy? I was left feeling unimpressed. What could this guy possibly have to offer to me?

Mary Jane didn't seem to notice the expression on my face, or any other complaint I had voiced, and walked right up to the guy. He was leaned in, so close to the screen that his nose was almost touching it. His fingers tapped and danced across the keyboard, playing around with what looked to be a music program. GarageBand? MusicMeister? I didn't know, I didn't really go for that kind of stuff.

He was kind of cute, at least from this angle. He seemed fit, from what I could tell under his somewhat nondescript clothes. A well-muscled neck, a sharp jaw and handsome nose. Dark hair, seeming to be dyed black, and a bright blue stripe that instantly caught my eye. Yep, definitely remembered him from the hall. You'd think with hair like that, a guy would be more outgoing, at least outspoken about his beliefs. But for the life of me, I could not recall ever hearing this guy speak. He may not have even been here too long, I'd never know. He seemed to have gone out of his way to blend in.

She tapped him on the shoulder, making the boy jump and almost fall out of his chair. "Gah!"

Mary Jane stifled a giggle and whispered, "Hey, stranger. You doing homework?"

"No, why?" the boy hadn't seen me just yet, since I was standing behind Mary Jane. When she moved aside to introduce me, I saw the boy's face pale, his too-big eyes widen. He looked like one of those funny looking lemurs. Clearly, he recognized me - perhaps my reputation of breaking people's arms and setting off fire alarms had preceded me. "Uh, why is she...?"

"This is Amelia -" MJ started, but I interrupted her right away.

"It's Amy," I glanced at her, crossing my arms before returning to look at the boy. The longer I glared at him, the farther he seemed to sink in his chair. "Just Amy."

"Sorry," she winced, finally seeming to catch on that I wasn't happy about this situation. Still, she managed a smile, and threw it in the boy's direction, maybe to draw him back out of that chair. "Amy, this is Jason. He's my...friend. Say hi, Jase."

"Hi," the boy whispered.

"Yo."

There was a second of silence as the three of us looked everywhere but each other. I wasn't going to say anything, and Jason didn't look up for the task, so Mary Jane took a deep breath and said, "Right! Jason, show her your music!"

"Music?"

"Oh yes," Mary Jane said, bouncing on the balls of her heels, "It's amazing, take a listen."

Silently, Jason passed over a pair of rather cumbersome looking headphones. Large, heavy black things that pressed against your ears and hurt like hell if you left them on too long. I knew, Peter had a similar pair and they were as annoying as hell. They messed up my radar if turned on too loud.

"Well," Mary Jane said, leaning over Jason's shoulder, her hand hovering over the keyboard, "Show her then."

He shot a peculiar, almost apologetic look over his shoulder at me. Oh, good lord. That didn't bode well at all - did he think his music was bad? Or trying to tell me that MJ was secretly tone-deaf and couldn't tell the difference? How bad was this going to be?

Mary Jane said something soft to Jason, which I didn't quite catch because he just hit the play button. I was just about to take off the headphones to ask what she said, and then the music started to play.

I wasn't going to let it stop me; I wasn't interested, and politeness was hardly a priority for me. But then I heard the first few notes. I tried to appear unimpressed.

Then I paused.

And listened.

I pressed a hand to the headphone, pushing it to my ear even though the foam was already flush with my skin. It was soft, sweet, almost mystical, and far too delicate for me to like.

But it evoked something in me. Pulled at the heartstrings, so to say. I didn't know how to describe it. I'm not a touchy-feely person, you know? I'm not good at expressing myself.

I didn't usually listen to a lot of music. Movies were more my thing, and their soundtracks were good enough for me. Lyrics and stuff...they didn't jazz with my radar. Thankfully for Jason, his little creation was orchestral only, and that was enough for me to experience the entire thing.

It took a few minutes for the song to end, and it cut off rather abruptly, the sounds echoing away to nothing. And that's when it hit me. That's when I understood what the song felt like.

Loneliness.

And I hated it.

Jason eyed me nervously, trying to gauge my opinion from my expression.

"It's good," I said, keeping my voice neutral, and handing the headphones back. It was an objective response: the song was good in the fact that it was well-crafted. The kid knew his stuff. It wasn't good in the fact that I hated it.

But he wasn't being specific, was he?

"You sure?" his said, his eyes wide. Maybe I hadn't hidden my feelings as well as I thought. Or maybe he was just self-conscious. I decided with the latter. "I mean, it isn't finished and..."

His voice tailed away, and I shot a glance at Mary Jane, who shrugged.

"Yeah," I said. This was stupid. I wasn't going to mince feelings with some weird music kid. "I'm sure."

I looked back across at Mary Jane, and made a subtle gesture toward the door. She nodded, and leant down to speak to Jason. They had a short whispered conversation, and Mary Jane gave him a brief hug from behind.

I tried not to look irritated and was already heading towards the exit. Their relationship - he was definitely not her boyfriend, I could tell (What? I'm still a girl) - and they seemed very brother/sister towards each other, even though they had no family resemblance whatsoever. I was also pretty sure I would have heard if Mary Jane had a mysterious brother hanging around. That was also the same age as her. Yeah, not twins, no way.

Watching that sentimental closeness made me feel awkward and it felt better to pretend it didn't happen.

"What's the deal with you two?" I asked, as Mary Jane finally caught up to me at the door. A glance behind me revealed that Jason had already returned to his music.

"It's-... Complicated," she said hesitantly. Oh, good, I knew what that meant: Secrets, like I didn't have enough of those in my life. "And it'll take a while to explain."

"So you aren't related then?"

"No," she said, laughing, "God no, we're totally different."

"Yeah," I said, looking back over my shoulder at the figure hunched over the keyboard.

Something about him unsettled me. I could see it in his eyes, the weird shift in his shoulders, that bruising cut on his jaw that I knew from experience could have only come from a serrated blade that a kid like him should have no business being around.

He was hiding something.

**That evening...**

Night had swept in quickly, the sun pushed aside by the mass of midnight blue. Far below, the traffic seemed to glow, numerous headlights and traffic lights blinking against the black asphalt. On either side, skyscrapers reared up, tall and proud, silhouetted against the lavender sky. The air was cold and still, and the night was quiet.

A single figure lay flat on the roof of some faceless office, hidden safely in the blacker-than-night shadows thrown by a nearby air vent. He barely breathed, his eye pressed tightly against the scope of ugly, heavy looking sniper.

The grip of the handle was familiar, the press of the butt against his shoulder – it felt completely natural. He had been doing this for as long as he could remember (which, admittedly, only went back for a few years), and since he first touched a gun, he had never missed a shot.

His target was in the apartment block across the street. The building, a squat, ugly box made of dirty red bricks. A building that could have appeared in any major city across the world.

The curtains were thin. Cheap squares of grimy, once-white cloth which prevented nothing but total privacy.

Behind the curtains, two figures moved. The first being a large, obese looking figure, their wide berth a shadow against the window. A second, slimmer, taller figure, probably female, performed various "exotic" dance moves while the man watched.

Behind his mask, the sniper's lip curled in contempt.

He readjusted his position slightly, the cross hairs lining up behind the man's head, then moving skyward slightly. The sniper concentrated, letting his breathing slow, focussing solely on what he could see though the scope, and on the cross-hair that swayed with his breaths. Finally, he took a breath, held it, and fired. The bullet was spat from the rifle with a rather unimpressive cough, and it sped toward the window at nearly 700 mph.

A split second pause, then the huge figure slid slowly to the floor. No splattering of blood. No Hollywood burst as the head exploded. Just a small hole in the back of the man's head, now showered with a fine dusting of broken glass.

"That was a mistake."

The voice, deep and distorted, called out from above him. The sniper looked up, just in time to evade a blow from the owner.

He rolled backwards, alighted on his feet, snapped up the rifle and fired. His assailant dived behind a brick outhouse, and the bullet blew shrapnel from the wall.

He paused. He never missed. Never.

In the split second it took for him to register the impossibility before him – the bullet changing direction mid-flight, the unnatural speed of his opponent – he understood that he had overstayed his welcome on this roof.

It was a rule of his: keep things as short as possible. Any physical combat should be short, and should escape rather than finish it if the former option was faster.

He fired off another shot blindly, not aiming, not even raising the rife; a sloppy shot from the hip that, wasn't meant to kill, only to distract, before he slung the sniper over his shoulder and took off running.

**Falcon**

Falcon cursed as her helmet was showered with fine chunks of brickwork. This guy, whoever he the hell he was, moved quickly. No normal thug could have dodged her attack. Internally, she berated herself for not disabling the gun, but she'd got cocky, and now she was paying for it.

A second bullet whistled past, perilously close to her head. The sound of feet on tarmac, and she realised the gunner had made a run for it. She leapt out from behind cover, and gave chase. She unsheathed her wings and took flight, keeping her eyes on the figure below her. She accelerated, before dropping onto the roof in front of him. He slid to a halt, and Falcon could hear his breathing, light and slow.

"Don't even try to fight," Falcon warned. The sound warbled low and threatening, and she couldn't help but smile at the sound. Man, she sounded badass. "You'll lose, believe me."

The figure didn't answer, and Falcon took the opportunity to examine him. They were dressed in an all black, skin-tight body suit. Their face was hidden behind a mask that lacked any facial features, it was just a continuous black. It had a hood, the hem pulled low over their left eye, so that a large amount of their face was thrown into darkness. In the half-light, she could make out a lens, a glowing, blood red tear-drop shape; The only splash of colour on a shadow. It was quite an unsettling effect.

Falcon circled them slowly, keeping a wary distance. The sniper's eyes followed her as she side-stepped, but he didn't move, and didn't turn as she approached from behind his back.

"Why did you kill him?" she asked, extending a hand on the pretence of placating - but was actually trying to keep him distracted as she reached out to the rifle mentally.

"I don't explain my reasons." The sniper rasped, his voice harsh. He still didn't turn to face her, keeping his face forward, and his arms by his side. Falcon noticed the vicious looking knife that was strapped to his leg, and she made a mental not to be more cautious about a fight.

She could disable a gun. It was harder to disable a knife.

Falcon was still focused on the sniper's mechanism, intrigued by it. It wasn't often she got the chance to see inside a gun this heavy duty, and she was taking the opportunity to learn how it worked. A twitch of her finger and the trigger was disabled, the chamber jammed.

Suddenly, the shooter moved.

He ripped the knife from its sheath and lashed out, the blade scything at Falcon's stomach.

She twisted away quickly, and retaliated with a swift punch toward the sniper's face, which he managed to block and swiped again at her.

Falcon grabbed the sniper's wrist, and twisted. The knife fell from the sniper's hand, but he managed to get a painful jab into Falcon's solar plexus. A jolt of pain hit her, but her concrete abdomen would have caused more damage to his knuckles. He wasn't nearly strong enough to break through her defence and knock the breath out of her.

From that knowledge, she knew that he was only human. An incredibly skilled and capable human, but still human. No super genetics, no cybernetic implants, or AI system. That made it a little harder – now she had to hold back to keep from pulverizing him.

Still holding onto his wrist, she brought up her foot and slammed her heel into his gut (see how he liked it). She felt satisfaction as he gasped in pain, but it was short lived when he elbowed her in the head.

Instinctively, she released the sniper's wrist, and he somersaulted backwards out of reach, a hand reaching for a pouch at his hip.

"No, you don't," Falcon muttered, and she lunged forward. The sniper threw something onto the ground, and dived aside, and for a split second, Falcon was staring a white tube on the ground. A flash-bang.

"Son of a...," she hissed. Light exploded across her vision, and her ear drums were assaulted by a wave of stunningly loud sound. She reeled backwards, a high pitched screaming in her ears and black spots dancing across her eyes. To a normal person this hurt. To Falcon, with her heightened sight and hearing, it was excruciating.

She was vaguely aware of falling backwards, but the blindness and shrieking in her ears kept her brain from any coherent thought.

Eventually, the noise and dark spots receded, and Falcon found herself staring up at the night sky. The sniper was gone, long gone by now. Falcon shook herself, and sat up slowly, her head pounding. She exhaled and stood, staggering slightly.

Despite her splitting head, and a hip that ached from where she had fell. Only her pride had been damaged tonight, and she was going to even the score.

She spread her wings and flew in a lazy spiral into the sky, briefly silhouetted against the pale light of the moon.

She didn't noticed the figure perched on a roof edge below, the long rifle strapped diagonally across its back. For a brief second, the sniper's hand twitched, a motion that made to raise the weapon and fire. But then he paused, and stopped, his hand dropping back to his side.

"This got more... Interesting," he muttered, before slipping from the rooftop into the shadows.

* * *

_Something worth noting, if you want the full understanding, go read The Solar Surfer's stuff. If you don't, do it anyway, she's a damn good writer. _


	2. Chapter 2: Champion of the Night

**Falcon: Nox Custos**

**Chapter II: Champion of the Night**

$10, 000 dollars for one night. Joe Clark had never even seen that much money in his entire life, and now it was going to be handed to him on a silver platter. He chuckled to himself and leant back on the chair. He didn't know what he was guarding nor, on reflection, did he think he wanted to know. With the sort of people he was dealing with, it might be better for him to be kept in the dark. He idly fiddled with the shotgun in his lap, and wondered what he would do with the money. Buy something for the wife, which was obvious; she'd been a little unhappy recently. Maybe he'd take his daughter, Millie, to Disney Land. He smiled at the thought.

Yeah, that would fix it up at home, at least for a while. His little treat to set things right. A breeze touched his face and he glanced around. The window was wide open. That's strange, he didn't remember opening it.

That's when he felt the glove clamp tightly across his mouth, and the knife bury itself in his chest. The shotgun slipped from his grasp, and he writhed against the hand that held him. Then he moved no more.

His daughter wouldn't get that trip to Disney Land.

The killer, the black suited sniper from the night before, dragged the body into the shadows, and straightened, checking his surroundings.

They were unremarkable. A generic industrial warehouse, with crates that stretched off into the blackness and beyond, the only light being dirty yellow pools thrown by the naked bulbs which hung from exposed wires.

Except, warehouses normally didn't have armed thugs guarding them.

The sniper clambered up on top of a row of shelves, and silently crept along it, one hand firmly gripping the now blood-coated knife.

A slight sound, footsteps against the concrete floor. The sniper dropped low, pressing himself against the rough wooden lid of the crates. The footsteps stopped, and the clicking of a lighter could be heard, before the smoke and smell from a cigarette drifted into the air. He picked that moment to move.

He pushed himself to his feet, and vaulted from the shelving, landing lightly behind the smoker. A swift slit across the man's throat, and he went down with a soft gurgle as his breath escaped the new hole in his throat.

The sniper searched the body, taking the weapons and ammo, and examining them closely. A Kalashnikov, or AK47. Heavy and crude, but, especially in his line of work, incredibly likely to outlive him. He slung it onto his back, and then shoved the body under the pile of crates, leaving a messy smear of blood on the floor.

He stepped up to one of the crates, and ran his hand along the seams. Nailed down. Hardly a surprise. He spotted the shipping label, and leant forward to read it. Pesticides, the label claimed.

_Sure, armed guards were clearly needed for household chemicals._

He unlimbered the rifle, and smashed the butt on the wooden lid. It took a few tries, but finally the planks gave way with a sound of tearing and splintering wood. The sniper winced as the sound echoed into the open air. Anyone else was sure to come running. But to hell with it, he could deal with untrained thugs.

He cleared away the remaining pieces of the wood, and inspected the contents, the glow of his lenses casting a faint red hue over everything. SMGs. A whole crate of them. Partially disassembled MP5s, reliable German weapons, efficient and clinical. The sniper grabbed a duffel bag that lay discarded nearby, and filled it with one of the guns, and a few handfuls of ammo, before slinging onto his shoulder.

The sound of running footsteps, and the sniper leapt up, back up onto the shelving, where he crouched, motionless. The runner came around the corner, and instantly spotted the blood on the floor, and the crate that had been looted.

"Aw shit," the runner breathed, and he un-holstered his pistol, and began sweeping the area, moving at a pace slightly slower than walking. The sniper slid the duffel bag off his shoulder, and pulled up the rifle, aligning the sights on the man's head. A quick squeeze of the trigger, and the sharp, unfeasibly loud cracks filled the warehouse. The rifle bucked against the sniper's shoulder, but the man fell, three new holes now sprayed across his chest. He writhed on the floor, and the sniper jumped from the shelves, keeping his sights trained on the body before him.

Whether he shot or not, this man was dying; whether he bled to death or not wasn't a concern. It was more a case of how much ammunition was acceptable to use. He pressed his foot against the man's throat and stared down into the man's eyes. They were wide and panicked, rapidly descending into shock. Another roar from the rifle, and the man lay still; a single round now in the middle of his forehead.

There wasn't a lot of time now. Gunshots didn't just go unreported, but there was something that still needed to be done. Running in a half crouch, the sniper made his way to the foreman's office, a square of rusty corrugated iron that over looked the entire floor space.

Inside, a single man sat asleep, his boots on the table, and his rifle discarded on the floor. Perfect. The element of surprise. He crept quietly into the room, then pounced. Grabbing the back of the man's head, he slammed it against the grimy walls.

"Who employed you?" The sniper barked, pressing the man's face into the iron.

"I dunno man," the foreman said, panic in his face and voice, "They never said."

"You're lying," the sniper said in a dangerous snarl, "I know you are, now tell me what I want to know. Or do I have to beat it out of you?"

"Listen man I don't know shit, ya gotta believe me!"

The sniper threw him into the table, then delivered a sharp jab to the man's shoulder blades. "Ten seconds," he growled, raising the rifle. "You can guess the 'or else'."

"Okay okay," the foreman blurted, waving his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I was approached by this, I dunno, mafia guy, had summin' to do with flowers."

"The Rose," the sniper hissed, "And they wanted you to guard this, correct?"

The foreman nodded furiously.

"Where's the manifest?"

"Here."

The sniper was handed a clipboard by shaking hands, and he thumbed through it quickly, pausing for half a second at a shipment on Aisle 28B. Then he ripped off the pages and stuffed them into a pouch at his hip, discarding the clipboard like litter.

"You bought yourself a five second head start," the sniper said coldly, "After that I will shoot you in the back of the head. Go."

The foreman scrambled to his feet and bolted from the room, nearly tripping over his own feet in his anxiety to leave.

The sniper counted to three, then crossed the room, aimed, and fired. The retreating form of the foreman crumpled like a puppet with severed strings.

"No loose ends."

He headed for aisle 28B, finding his way by using the chalk writing scrawled at the entrance to an aisle. The one he needed was identical to the others, but the contents of the crates were what he was after. He smashed open the lid, and revealed an RPG, complete with two extra rockets. Carrying both this and the duffel bag he had left elsewhere would be difficult. After a moment's thought, he decided to forgo the MP5; it wasn't like they would be hard to come by, especially if the Rose was shipping in guns by the boatload.

He strapped the RPG and accompanying rockets to his back, and exited via the same window he had entered through. Quickly, he headed across the street, and scaled a pile of shipping containers. A few police cars had pulled up outside the warehouse, and were in the process of arresting the few remaining thugs. Approaching sirens indicated more were coming.

The sniper crouched on the cold steel of the container, and jammed the first rocket down the barrel of the RPG. He tugged it onto his shoulder, feeling the strangely comforting weight dig into his skin.

He'd never used one of these before, but it couldn't be too difficult. It was still a gun, and he knew guns.

The rocket exploded from the barrel and spiraled toward the warehouse, trailing smoke as it went. Several of the officers noticed and dived sideways to avoid the impact. Others were less lucky.

Undeterred, the sniper loaded another rocket and fired, aiming slightly to the left of where he had last time. The warehouse now had a smoking crater in its wall, and a fire was flaring against the crates.

He fired again, and jammed the third and final rocket down the barrel. He took a breath and fired. The warehouse was almost completely decimated now, two of its walls now lay in ruins, and the fire had caught properly, and was eating its way through the wooden crates. There were small explosions as the fire spread to crates full of chemicals, creating fantastic light shows that almost made it enjoyable to watch.

The sniper threw the launcher aside and prepared to escape, when a few of the officers noticed him. Cries of anger and dismay filled the air, and some of the more trigger-happy offices opened fire. Bullets whistled past the sniper's head and he swore under his breath, ducking low to avoid them. Then the fire finally broke through the crates and touched the ammunition inside. There was an enormous _bang_, and several of the officers threw themselves to the floor, although no actual damage had been done.

The sniper used the distraction to slide from the container and into the shadows. He was done here. The fire would take care of any evidence, and the police would never trace it back to him.

A successful night.

_Amy_

I was fuming as I stormed back into my room. Three nights, and each time he'd evaded me. His trail was getting colder every night. Gangs of thugs gunned down, warehouses burned to the ground, and people assassinated in their own homes. My suit was burned, stained and torn from clambering around the shouldering shells, and I was exhausted as I'd barely slept the last four days.

I flopped down into a chair and closed my eyes. God damn, it felt good to sit down. A few minutes, I thought, that's all.

I didn't hear the police scanner blurt into life, as I had already dozed off. I wish I hadn't, for tonight would have been another chance to settle an unfinished score.

_Meanwhile_

His name was Kyle Monke, a low ranking gangster, with barely a foot hold in the crime hierarchy of Manhattan. He ran one casino, but his main income was the shoplifting empire he organized. Of course, he was nothing compared to the likes of the Big Man, but that was how he liked it, too small for the likes of Spiderman or Falcon – especially Falcon – to notice.

He stood alone in a dingy office building, a yellowish pool of light throwing the suspicious stains on the carpet into sharp relief. He took a coin from his pocket and began to flip it idly, when a hand grabbed it out of mid-air.

"You always were a show off," Monke said, half smiling, his heavy Bronx accent twisting the vowels.

"Good to see you too boss," The other man said. He was an ugly man, with a scraggly beard, greasy hair, and rather piggy eyes.

"Wait," Monke said, "Where's Jake?"

Jake was his other lieutenant, and was never late. He wasn't a smart man, but he was loyal, and did whatever Monke told him to. That included being at these meetings.

"I don't think he'll be attending tonight," a voice rasped from the shadows.

"Who said that?" Monke growled, un-holstering his revolver, as the other man did the same.

"I did," the voice said again, and now, two red tear drops blinked into life, and advanced slowly.

The rest of the speaker's body came into view. A black suited, hooded figure, with a rifle slung across his shoulder, a knife at his hip, and a duffel bag in his hand.

Monke's companion raised his pistol, but this newcomer was quicker. He drew the knife, and flung it across the short distance between them. The greasy-haired man crumpled with the knife buried in his chest.

"Now we can talk without interruptions," the figure hissed, and he grabbed Monke's collar, throwing him against the floor, then pressing his knees against Monke's chest.

"This is how we're going to do things, Slime-ball," he snarled, the lenses very close to Monke's face, "You tell me anything, and everything you know about the White Rose, and I'll let you run your pathetic shoplifting racket. Skimp out on the deal though, and I will come down on you hard."

Monke felt defiance well inside his chest. Who the hell was this guy? Thinking he could just bust in here and start making demands. His feelings must have shown on his face, because the figure sat back.

"Maybe you still need convincing," he said harshly, and he reached for the duffel bag, throwing it onto Monke's chest.

"What's in here?" Monke asked, suspicion in his voice.

The figure stood and retrieved his knife from the dead man's chest. Then he turned back to face Monke, who was clutching the bag in both hands.

"What's in the bag?" he repeated, and Monke could hear the cruel smile in his voice, "Jake is."

Monke's eyes widened, and he quickly lobbed the bag away.

"Alright," Monke said, "I get the picture."

"Everything you know by tomorrow night, you can guess the 'or else'."

…

_24 hours later..._

_Falcon_

Falcon crouched on the lip of the roof, scanning the street below. Faceless office buildings and apartments stretched away on either side of the road, away into the shadows of the night. The police had found a body here last night, a single knife wound in his chest. No fingerprints, no evidence left behind. The police thought it was unlikely the killer would ever be found, but Falcon had her suspicions. Another criminal suddenly murdered? There was only one person it could be.

Someone moved down in the street below, and Falcon leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. They were hard to make out form this distance, but, as they stood in the light from a street lamp, Falcon could see how they were dressed. Unfortunately, a dark grey suit gave very little away as to who they were. After a suspicious glance around, the figure took a swift step into a dilapidated office tower.

Falcon spread her wings and took flight, dropping into the air before soaring up and toward the building into which the figure had disappeared. She landed lightly on an upper window ledge, and slid the window open with a crunch of rotten wood. She clambered inside, and found herself on a small section of deteriorating floor. The rest of the room had fallen away, the plaster walls, and moldy floors all collapsed into the atrium below. Only the iron girders that had once supported the room remained, and Falcon crawled along it. The figure she had followed here was below, standing nervously in a patch of pale moonlight.

"You're late." The harsh voice rasped from the shadows below, and both Falcon and the figure stiffened.

The sniper stepped from the darkness, lenses narrowed and glowing demonically.

"What do you have for me?" He demanded, arms folded. Falcon noticed the assault rifle strapped to his back, and the plastic explosives at his hip. There was a strange new device attached to his right wrist, sleek and black, with a handle that looped across his palm.

"Nothin' much," the suited figure said shakily, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead, "It's a Mafia, lotta drug runs, lotta hands in a lotta places. If somethin' bad happens in the city, the White Rose probably 'ave somethin' to do with it."

"That it?" The sniper snapped, unfolding his arm and advancing, "I knew that already. You're barely holding up your end of the deal, Monke."

Falcon was listening hard, and had noted the mention of the Rose.

"What does he have against them?" She wondered, "And what's this deal?"

"Hey, cool it," Monke said, backing up against a shattered desk, "I did as best I could."

"Your best is pathetic," the sniper snarled, grabbing hold of Monke's collar and pressing him into the desk. He leaned in close, and spoke in a low growl. Falcon had to shift her position, trying to get as close as possible without leaving the girder entirely. Her foot kicked a loose floorboard, and it tumbled toward the lower floor.

Falcon made a wild grab for it, but her hand missed by a few millimetres, and the board hit the floor with an echoing boom.

She made a wild grab for it - missed by a few millimeters - before latching onto the wood with her mind and catching it before the wood could hit the ground.

Falcon breathed a sigh of relief. Wrong move.

The sniper tensed, and his gaze fell upon Falcon, who was still on the girder, still frozen with her hand reaching out towards the now-floating piece of wood.

"You," he hissed, his eyes narrowing to poisonous slits. He ripped the rifle from his back and opened fire, bullets scything through the air toward her.

Falcon leapt backwards, propelling herself into the air and grabbing a severed water pipe above her head, twisting upwards to avoid the spray.

Simultaneous with the bullet-dodging (thank you, Neo, she thought to herself), Falcon flung the piece of wood she still had a mental grip on, straight at the sniper. Her aim held true despite her current state in motion, and the board struck the sniper across the shoulder, disrupting the spray of bullets and sending him sprawling backwards.

When Falcon landed, she looked back, just in time to see the sniper raise his arm, and squeeze the handle of the mysterious device. A cable was spat from the nose, with a single, sharp-looking barb attached to the end.

Some kind of grappling gun then, Falcon realized in the back of her mind, a split second before the cable wrapped itself around her chest.

"What the hell-!" She was yanked downwards, the sudden acceleration jerking her head backwards. She was pulled helplessly toward the sniper, who stood with both feet planted on the ground, his left arm supporting his right.

Falcon struck her arms out, partly to protect herself and partly to create a blast of wind to slow her down, and it working; but too little, too late.

There was a metallic _thunk_ as the cable was ejected, and then the sniper landed a kick squarely in her stomach. With the momentum gained from being pulled and receiving the blow, Falcon sailed backwards a foot or two, coming to a halt when she crashed into the desk Monke had been interrogated against.

She wondered idly where Monke had gone, before she took another blow to the chest. It barely hurt, and only managed to bring her to her senses. Her hands were not bound, and she caught the sniper's fist when he attempted another blow.

"My turn," she said, her voice low and echoing. She delivered a vicious blow to his face, her strength cracking one red eye lens, then threw him over her shoulder, and heard the satisfying thud as he hit the back wall.

Falcon stood leisurely, smiling in confidence of her own skills. It's not like he could beat her in a fight, now could he? She turned to face him, and spread her arms wide.

"Gimme your best shot," she taunted, as the sniper hunched on one knee at the base of the wall. He seemed to be fiddling with something, but her radar couldn't pick up on the exact details.

Then the plastic explosive came flying for her face. Her eyes widened. She'd forgotten about that.

Falcon's radar flashed in warning and burned her reflexes into action: she swept a hand, knocking the white package aside before it could touch her. It went skittering across the ground.

It wasn't over yet.

KA-BOOM!

Falcon had just turned on her heel to get away when she was blown backwards off her feet. Pain and fire washed over her, and her vision clouded.

She barely felt it as she landed amongst scattered and still-falling rubble. The pain was immense – although fast enough to get out of the blast radius, Falcon had been hit with various pieces of shrapnel and blooming fire had managed to burn her in several places. It was enough to stun her; Falcon could do nothing more than writhe blearily among the dust.

The foggy form of the sniper climbed casually to his feet, and walked from the room, pulling the assault rifle back onto his shoulder. He stared at Falcon for little more than a second, before escaping out into the night. Falcon felt the pain overwhelm her mind, and she blacked out.

Falcon awoke suddenly, at the sound of an engine revving outside. The aches and stings were already receding, and anger was replacing it.

She pushed herself to her feet, rage now alighting in her chest like an inferno. Oh, she was going to get even for this. Beat him within an inch of his life then dump him at the station to rot in jail.

Oh yeah, he'll pay. She shot her wings outwards, and launched herself into the air, smashing into open air through a decaying window. She spotted the sniper almost instantly, as he tore through the street on a motorcycle, a vehicle that was almost certainly stolen.

Her eyes narrowed and she streamlined her body, willing herself forward. The sniper looked back over his shoulder, and his eyes widened for a second.

"Weren't expecting me were you?"she jeered, the pitch of her voice wavering up and down like a warped record, the damaged pitch-shifter in her helmet sparking and crackling.

The sniper didn't react, just lay closer to the bike, and opened the throttle further.

"Oh no, you don't," Falcon muttered, and she flattened her arms against her side, and pushed herself forward. She was bearing down on the bike at an incredible speed, and the corners of her vision began to blur. The bike was right there, just a few meters out of arms reach. Suddenly, it was gone, and there was only the road, rushing up to meet her, and splatter her across the tarmac like a bug on a wind-shield.

The sniper sat astride the bike, watching as Falcon sped toward the floor. His shoulder burned from the maneuver he'd just pulled. At the last second, he'd fired the grappling hook into the road, causing him to turn nearly 180 degrees in less than a second. Now he looked on as Falcon raced toward her doom.

"No," A voice whispered in the back of his mind, "NO!"

He came to a snap decision. He vaulted from the bike and pushed himself into a forward roll. He alighted on his feet,and raised his arm, tracking Falcon's movement as they hurtled toward the ground. He'd only get one shot at this, and if he messed up... No, he didn't miss.

He shoved the doubts further into the recesses of his mind, and gripped the handle of his grapple gun tighter. It was now or never.

He squeezed the inlaid trigger and there was a mechanical _thunk_, and a discharge of steam. The grapple line was spat from his wrist and it shot across the open air, a thin line that intercepted Falcon's descent.

Suddenly, he was in the air too, pulled along by the wire retracting back into the grapple gun. He was seconds away from cutting across Falcon's trajectory, and he spread one arm wide. He _could _catch her, he never missed.

Falcon tried to pull back but her momentum was too strong - crapcrapcrapcrap - she was going to die for sure, this was a terrible way to die, and completely ironic for the flying superhero to fall to her death...absolutely deplorable for someone like her.

She saw pavement flash and closed her eyes, bracing for impact. Maybe she could survive her entire skeleton shattering to bits...

Then, at the last second, something hit her side-on, she felt a pressure being wrapped around her back, as if some where holding her. A pause, where nothing could be heard save for her heartbeat, and she felt as if she was frozen in mid air. Then she was falling again. A familiar sound rang out; the mechanical thud of something firing, then she was flying upwards. She opened her eyes, and saw the black jumpsuit of the sniper, his arm holding her close. Her adrenaline was draining away now, and the pain was eager to return.

"What, what are you doing?" She said, and was surprised at how she slurred some of the words.

He said nothing, and simply carried her to the low roof of a nearby house. He landed lightly, and set her down against a brick chimney. Her vision was darkening, the blackness clawing at her peripherals. Falcon wasn't truly healed, and her body urged for rest to complete the process. Still, she had enough sense to demand, "Why did you save me?"

He knelt down, and leant very close, digging a gloved hand into a burn on her arm, making it sing with agony. It was so intense that her vision blinked out and she was left gasping for breath.

"Stay out of my way," he rasped, "The Rose is mine."

"The Rose again," Falcon thought with annoyance, before she fell unconscious, her brain shutting her down for repairs.


End file.
